I replaced 'amidst' and 'rid'st' with 'fields' and 'yields' which both work while retaining the pattern of imagery nicely and seem more natural as choices, then replaced the later, now repeated 'fields' with 'rows' in l.7 The latter substitution helps the alliteration along some as well as adding to the internal rhyming scheme.

Think not of battles, but rather after,when the tremor in your right legbecomes a shake you cannot stop, when the burned man's tendoned cheeks are locked into a scream that,before you sank the bullet in his brain to end it,had been quite loud. Think of how he still seems to scream.Think of not caring. Call this "relief."

Think heat waves rising from the dust.Think days of rest, how the sergeant laysthe .22 into your palm and says the dogsoutside the wire have become a threatto good order and to discipline:some boys have taken them as pets, they spreaddisease, they bit a colonel preening for a TV crew.

Think of afternoons in T-shirt and shorts,the unending sun, the bite of sweat in eyes.Think of missing so often it becomes absurd.Think quick pop, yelp, then puckered fur.Think skinny ribs. Think smell.Think almost reaching grief, butnot quite getting there.

THEY shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?

They shall not return to us; the strong men coldly slainIn sight of help denied from day to day:But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,Are they too strong and wise to put away?

Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide– Never while the bars of sunset hold.But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?

Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour:When the storm is ended shall we findHow softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to powerBy the favour and contrivance of their kind?

Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,Even while they make a show of fear, Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their friends,To conform and re-establish each career?

Their lives cannot repay us–their death could not undo–The shame that they have laid upon our race. But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,Shell we leave it unabated in its place?

I Lord of this blood-drenched battle plain, Lord of the foe our hands have slain Glory to Thee amidst the dead, That Thou hast still Thy people led, And shattered thus, O Lord benign, This people that was also Thine!

Lord of our high, triumphant state, Lord of the hearths made desolate -- Shall they not praise Thee, they that rue Beside those hearths the dead we slew? Yea, at Thine altar let them bow, God of their dead and them art Thou!

Lord of the darkness and the sun, While we give thanks for victory won, Surely each blackening wound that gapes Here in these broken human shapes, Mouths but its praise of all Thy powers! Thou wert their God no less than ours.

II Yet is it well that men to-day Recrown their fathers' god of clay? Yet is it well that from his sleep The savage in our blood should leap To flatter from this reeking sod The spirit of his primal god?

Nay, we were best be mute, and raise No blasphemy of boastful praise, Scatter no incense on the air, Nor lift our reddened hands in prayer, But dig the earth our steps defame, And hide these trophies of our shame.

Silence the braggart lips that call The brute that slumbers in us all Back to the ravening triumph foul Of rending claws and bloody jowl -- Lest we forget the heights sublime, And lapse into our ancient slime.

I am the man who looked for peace and foundMy own eyes barbed.I am the man who groped for words and foundAn arrow in my hand.I am the builder whose firm walls surroundA slipping land.When I grow sick or madMock me not nor chain me;When I reach for the windCast me not downThough my face is a burnt bookAnd a wasted town.

No grave is rich, the dust that herein lies Beneath this white cross mixing with the sand Was vital once, with skill of eye and hand And speed of brain. These will not re-arise These riches, nor will they be replaced; They are lost and nothing now, and here is left Only a worthless corpse of sense bereft, Symbol of death, and sacrifice and waste.

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